Exclusive: Chloe Gong Says She Feels Like a Prophet After Writing ‘Coldwire’ and You Can See For Yourself With This Excerpt

Chloe Gong has been predicting this since 2017. She didn't mean to though... The 26-year-old author is celebrating her fifth year in the game by releasing a new series that changes things up for the author as she swaps fantasy for virtual reality, but it's actually getting super close to some of the advancements in our real lives. So much so, that the author thinks that we're moving at a much more rapid pace than she initially thought.

"I felt like a prophet with every headline we get. I conceptualized this book in 2017, long before we'd been talking about everything that has now emerged. Most of it was drafted in 2022 and that was when AI really took off. Then we hit 2024 and this year, and it has felt so much more relevant than ever," she said. "I thought this book would have been out already by then. I thought we had way longer to go."

The new book, Coldwire, is set to be released on November 4, 2025, leaving us wondering what else she has seen in her crystal ball or whatever device that is telling her what is about to come true. The book follows two young women, Lia and Eirale, who find themselves at two different sides of a war that could change everything they've ever known. Here's some more info from our friends over at Margaret K. McElderry Books:

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Chloe Gong comes the start of a daring new dystopian series where humanity has moved to virtual reality to flee their deteriorating world, following two young soldiers who must depend on unlikely allies in their fight for survival.

The future is loading…

To escape rising seas and rampant epidemics, most of society lives “upcountry” in glistening virtual reality, while those who can’t afford the subscription are forced to remain in crumbling “downcountry.”

But upcountry isn’t perfect. A cold war rages between two powerful nations, Medaluo and Atahua—and no one suffers for it more than the Medan orphans in Atahua. Their enrollment at Nile Military Academy is mandatory. Either serve as a soldier, or risk being labelled a spy.

Eirale graduated the academy and joined NileCorp’s private forces downcountry, exactly as she was supposed to. Then Atahua’s most wanted anarchist frames her for assassinating a government official, and she’s given a choice: cooperate with him to search for a dangerous program in Medaluo or go down for treason.

Meanwhile, Lia is finishing her last year upcountry at Nile Military Academy. Paired with her academic nemesis for their final assignment, Lia is determined to beat him for valedictorian and prove her worth. But there may be far more at stake when their task to infiltrate Medaluo and track down an Atahuan traitor goes wrong…

Though Eirale and Lia tear through Medaluo on different planes of reality, the two start to suspect they are puzzle pieces in a larger conspiracy—and the closer they get to the truth, the closer their worlds come to a shattering collision.

Chloe admits that while some of her previous Young Adult books have leaned more into New Adult territory, this truly feels like a YA novel with the ages of the characters being younger. She also wants to give younger audiences the chance to read something that she had always been looking for: a science fiction novel.

"I think this is kind of a personal vendetta of mine. People try to say, young people don't like science fiction because they don't understand it. That's so not true. I remember I loved science fiction. Accessibility for young people doesn't mean a lack of complex ideas. It just needs to be interesting to them," Chloe said.

It did present a unique challenge now that she finds herself writing for a different sort of generation that is coming up before her.

"When I was writing Coldwire, I was having to readapt to writing for that audience. For a very long time it was so easy for me to just write for myself, because I was the age of these characters as I was going through those books."

It helps, of course, that this is a project that she has been wanting to do for so long.

"I have wanted to do cyberpunk for so long. When I even got started in historical fantasy, I was thinking, One day I want to do something futuristic. One day I want to do thing that just feels cool, but also heavily political, and also just has people in neon lights and all of the stuff when you think of futuristic movies," she continued. "When I did finally get the chance to pitch this project and then write the proposals and then do the first draft, it did feel propulsive coming out of me."

And now you get the chance to dip into this exciting new world with an exclusive excerpt you can check out below! Just make sure to pre-order Coldwire and check out some of Chloe's previous reads as well!

An Excerpt From Coldwire
By Chloe Gong

LIA

I can tell our backyard hasn’t been cleaned in a while because last month’s broken tree branch is still lying by the picket fence.

The early-morning wind howls against the window, rattling the latches. Downcountry sunrises don’t bring much light anymore, not like the way they’ve redesigned them upcountry. I hate how gloomy everything is at this hour, how empty the world feels. Shadows shift in the room like the mist outside—heavy and viscous, hemmed with weight. Dad says I shouldn’t sit in the alcove because it’s too exposed, and the window could be easily smashed. Our house is in Haven State, east of Button State and two hours away from Button City, where the daytime sky is always tinted vaguely brown. When the winds quiet, I can hear our electrified perimeter: a faint, steady hum that Tamera swears isn’t noticeable.

We’ve never had an incident at the house. The general public—despite their constant accusations that my father is a Medan spy—isn’t stupid, and they know he’s not here downcountry. Dad, like every other senator in Atahua, keeps his physical body in the District of Melnova, inside a locked hideaway office within the well-protected Capitol Building. On his reset days, he’ll be walking around the Capitol, summoning coffee to be delivered by service bots.

No one is getting past the fence, in any case. No looters, no hitchhiking vagrants looking for a warm place to hide out. I suppose there’s the rare chance someone comes by to throw something for protest’s sake, which is the only scenario I can imagine there being danger. SENATOR’S DAUGHTER CONKED BY A BRICK. Rather pathetic for a headline. I shift away from the window.

The television on the wall switches segments, starting the latest breaking news coming out of Button City. When I tilt back to listen, my hair protests the motion, caught around my shoulders like a black shawl. Apparently some government official was murdered last night. They don’t say what the official was doing in the city downcountry to begin with, where he was at risk of getting murdered. Nor do they mention that these sorts of assassinations seem to be happening more and more often, despite the innumerable security initiatives NileCorp launches at every quarterly presentation to “protect Atahua.” Before anyone can mull too long on the details, the newscasters turn the segment over to a James Moore interview: an old one that I’ve practically memorized because I’ve watched it so many times, and I wave my hand to mute the television.

“Lia, are you up here?”

“Yeah,” I call back. “Alcove.”

Tamera’s footsteps draw closer to my room. I busied myself enough yesterday when I first logged out of upcountry, going from the treadmill to the rowing machine to the pull-up bar installed on my door. Now I’m just impatient to finish my mandatory twenty-four hours downcountry. Monthly users in the Pods stay upcountry the longest, but we still need to reset downcountry—in the real world—to prevent our bodies from deteriorating. Most of my grade at the academy do it together: on the first of each month, they’re all spat out from their Pods in the dorms of Nile Military Academy, free to move around as long as they don’t leave campus. While they use the time to socialize, to go for a run around the school grounds and shake out their body, I wake up here.

As much as I grouch and grumble, critically afraid of missing good gossip in the time I’m away, I know that Dad only insists on having my Pod at home in Haven State to keep me safe. Aside from skyrocketing crime in the few remaining major cities, our mere existence in the real world is dangerous now. It’s why they invented upcountry, after all. Half a century ago, it would have been unfathomable to imagine how we have to live now. When Tamera reminisces about her childhood, she had blue skies in the real world and a minor flu season that took her out for a couple of days at most.

Then the seas started to flood the coasts, the very air turned cancerous, and the pandemics mutated at a rate that killed us faster than we could inoculate against them. The factories refused to stop pumping toxins into the clouds, and the megacorporations wouldn’t unplug their machines eating up freshwater. What else were people to do?

When NileCorp invented StrangeLoom, it promised a server to each nation. They would virtually replicate their streets down to the shape of the cobblestones, and the property that anyone owned “downcountry” would become theirs “upcountry” too. I’ve had a ridiculous number of assignments on the famous presentation where James Moore introduced those terms to the world, how he paused after speaking both words as though he knew he was making history. Upcountry solved a problem without having to rectify the damage they were doing. The planet tried to wage a war after decades of torment, and NileCorp took its civilian combatants away. Now most of the world’s population has migrated to experience life online, and though this existence is all I have ever known, people sure do seem happier for it.

I flex my hands, watching the curve of my knuckles, the lines of my bones shifting and straining. My handheld device is already buzzing with updates on the feed, posts from my classmates returning to virtual. Rayna promised to collect all the reset-day gossip for me, so at least that’ll make an interesting lunch debrief.

Tamera pokes her head through my door.

“Do you want any breakfast, honey?”

“I’m okay.” The security system beeps from a panel by the television. It’s announcing an external temperature change, which could mean a dust storm is blowing in. I already have no desire to go outside, ever, but our house system’s diligent notifications only add to my repulsion. I’d probably shrivel like a raisin if I stepped outside. A radioactive raisin.

“Are you sure?” Tamera presses.

“I’m sure.”

Tamera puts her hands on her hips. “Real food is good for you.”

I don’t have any memories of my adoptive mom because I was too young when she passed away. Tamera is the closest maternal figure I’ve known—though, technically, she’s my adoptive great-aunt. While Dad is busy in Melnova, Tamera’s the one who takes care of me. She lives here, at the Haven State house, staying close on the off chance my Pod needs maintenance while I’m inside. During the day she’ll log into upcountry as a daily subscriber, help Dad out at the Melnova apartment, and when it’s time to take some rest, she’ll come back down, getting sleep in the real.

I huff, throwing my legs over the alcove.

“But, Tamera,” I whine, “I’m so not hungry. Perilously unhungry. In fact, I might throw up if I get a single bite inside of me.”

It’s not entirely theatrics. I’m usually somewhat nauseous when I come downcountry, even though the reset is supposed to be refreshing. Once I get back into the Pod, the nutrient line will keep me fed. I like the nutrient line. Most other cadets, like Rayna, go downcountry way more than mandated to work out and feed their real bodies. They say that no amount of training upcountry can replace physical exercise in the real world. Meanwhile, I’m convinced I could stay logged in forever if the mandatory reset didn’t exist. The Pods are built to hold us indefinitely as long as someone is topping up the nutrient line, and my body never shows signs of decline when I’m forced to log off. Clearly I’m doing fine without popping down as frequently.

“All right, well”—Tamera checks her watch, waiting for the band to flash—“you still have about twenty minutes before your Pod unlocks. I’ll make you some coffee or something. Your father always takes tea upcountry, but if you ask me, I don’t think they’ve quite perfected the caffeine reaction. . . .”

Tamera’s mostly talking to herself as she disappears back into the hall, then down the stairs to the third-floor kitchen. On my reset days, she doesn’t go upcountry until I do. So she waits with me, bustling around a wilted house with little to do. Secretly I think she’s impatient to return to the Melnova apartment where she has a set list of tasks: buy ingredients to cook with, dust the furniture, put plants out on the porch. When I video-call Dad, I always see Tamera in the background, cooking despite her insistence that it’s all just pixels. Her dyed blond hair and happily plump shape make her appear younger, but Tamera lived a whole life before upcountry was invented thirty years ago. She speaks of virtual as a false reality, a copycat plane trying to replace the true experience. It’s why she only uses a Claw headset and doesn’t want a Pod of her own, so that she can be in and out as she pleases.

The windowpane rattles again. On the television screen, James Moore mouths through the NileCorp origin story, and I finally clamber off the alcove, contributing the audio for him in perfect synchrony: “The future is online. The future is digital.” The StrangeLoom icon flashes in the corner, an infinity-shaped arrow swallowing itself up like an ouroboros, and I wave the television off entirely.

Eighteen more minutes. I pad down the hallway. In the bathroom, the small touchpad for the light is always farther away than I think, and I grope my hand back and forth on the wall. My mirror image barely resembles a person hovering at the hazy gray entryway, more a silhouette than a body, more a phantom than anything solid. I don’t like being downcountry. I don’t like the empty white walls, the cold tile floors, and the clinical sterile smell that pervades every corner of the house except for the alcove, never going away no matter how much I try to create ventilation in my room.

The round bulb flares on. With the light, I’m suddenly crystal clear in the mirror, and my vision lurches. Everything appears flat. I have to take a deep breath. I force myself to count: ten, nine, eight—

It’s called Wakeman Syndrome. For as long as upcountry has been around, so has the disorder that afflicts the 0.5 percent of people who question their reality as a result. It’s named after President Elliot Wakeman, the guy in charge when NileCorp introduced StrangeLoom and started allowing people upcountry. Wakeman was halfway into his second term when he went off the rails and tried to launch a nuclear weapon at Cega. Despite being downcountry at the time, he was convinced that nothing was real and he needed to wake up from a simulation. Atahua’s western neighbor barely escaped annihilation because the vice president talked him down and had him committed for psychiatric help.

A rather fitting disorder given his name, and the term stuck.

Breathe, breathe.

I’ve only told Dad about my symptoms, but he thinks I’m overreacting. He says it’s not Wakeman Syndrome, that I’m just too overworked at school. He offered to refer me to his therapist so I can talk through my feelings—normal feelings, he insists, for someone of my age and ambition. He thinks I need to pick up some hobbies, try to enjoy life outside my grades. In elementary I studied excessively to ensure I’d qualify for Nile Military Academy, and now at Nile I study excessively to make valedictorian. Of course I’ve grown paranoid that I’m nothing but an incomprehensible warp of pixels and code. All I’ve known is putting good work in and extracting good results. When I’m not upcountry as an avatar, when I’m supposed to be relaxing as a real girl, time feels blurry, and the things that I’ve done mere minutes ago feel as though they’ve faded hours into the past. I get the sense that time ceases to exist, that if I think too hard about it, I’ll accidentally break out from its hold and become lost in a floating void.

“Lia?” Tamera’s voice floats in from the stair landing. “Which mug is yours? The blue or the green?”

“Blue,” I call back. “Thanks!”

On Dad’s official government About Me! page, they call me Lia Sullivan, even though by their own law that’s not allowed. There have been one too many Medan child spies pretending to be orphans, which means that while Atahuans can take us in, love us, make us a part of their family, we can’t ever shake off the Ward surname, and we’re still mandated to attend military school once we’re of age. Wards are also responsible for their own school fees, so we all go in debt to the schools, and our adoptive parents can’t take on the burden. It’s a protective mechanism for Atahua, allegedly, but everyone knows what it achieves. Atahua needs spies for their cold war too, and this guarantees them their most precious resource: Medan faces who can blend in when they’re sent to the enemy nation.

So when Dad messaged me the appointment slot for therapy last week, I declined. I can’t risk the academy suspecting I have Wakeman Syndrome. They won’t want a cadet struggling with a disorder in NileCorp’s private security forces, and the only reason I work so hard at the academy is to secure the most desired posting after graduation. I’m going to stay close to Dad, in Melnova. I’m not going to be used as ammunition in their war.

I reach behind my head, touching the slight hollow at the top of my neck, where my hairline starts. There’s no scar. The procedure is so small and routine that the skin heals over perfectly to encase the chip inside. I got it when I enrolled on the StrangeLoom system at five years old—everyone does to allow full immersion through neural signals. Sometimes I wish they’d left a scar, just so I’d have some minor difference between my body and my avatar. Just as proof that I have real skin that can be cut.

My hand twitches, unexpectedly itching as though I’ve been bitten by a frenzy of fire ants. I scrunch hard, making a fist when my arm returns to my side.

“I swear, Lia, I don’t know how there are so many mugs in this kitchen.”

Tamera again. While she continues chatting idly from downstairs, I reach for the shelves beside the bathroom sink, trailing my fingers along the items. One of the fine-tooth combs sticks above the rest, its handle thin and tail-like, sharpened at the end.

Before I can think twice, I have the comb in one hand, pressing into the palm of my other. Its sharp end sinks into my skin, burrows parallel to a vein, carving an indent. Then I push harder, harder. My hand stings fiercely, but it’s not enough. As long as it is bearable, it might be nothing but a virtual sensory response, manufactured to make me believe in a generated reality.

Break, I urge, imagining my skin splitting apart. Show me something undeniable.

“Lia!”

Tamera, suddenly, is at my side, grabbing my wrist. Though I don’t resist, I keep the sharp end down, and when she pulls my hand away, the comb drags across my palm forcefully.

I really do wince this time. The comb clatters to the floor, striking against the tiles with a horribly discordant sound.

For a few seconds, the scratch is only bright red, a raised welt. Then blood beads to the surface, seeping through the damaged membrane. Little dots surround the cut in varying sizes before the red drips downward, landing one drop on the floor tiles.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It means I’m real. I’m real. StrangeLoom doesn’t encode blood.

“What has gotten into you?” Tamera hisses.

“Nothing,” I answer at once. “Nothing. I had an itch.”

“An itch!” Tamera grabs a towel, then wraps it around my hand tightly to stanch the cut. “You didn’t need to press so hard.”

I wrinkle my nose, lifting the towel off to peek at the scratch. The bleeding has already stopped. I feel much better. A tension that had been building and building in my chest these twenty-four hours has been allowed a release, a hole punctured through my chest to begin pressurization.

“I’m okay, I swear,” I say.

Tamera isn’t so easily deflected. She frowns, still looking at my hand. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but I’ve gotten a whole head taller than her, so she needs to hold my arm far above her eye level to keep it elevated.

“Come to the kitchen. I’ll give you a bandage.”

“It’s already stopped bleeding. See?” I show her my palm. “A bandage will just get gross if I leave it on for a month inside.”

“Lia.”

I stick out my lower lip. “Tameraaaaaa . . .”

“All right, all right,” she relents, dropping my hand. “Come on, then. Twenty-four hours are up.”

We walk back to my bedroom. The moment Tamera steps in, she goes to open the side window’s curtains, which doesn’t change the lighting situation. She seems to realize it too, pausing before drawing them half-shut again.

“Are you going straight to school?” Tamera asks, turning around.

I pretend to check the watch on her wrist. “I thought I’d enter on a Button City landing station to do some luxury shopping first.”

Tamera gives me a wry look. “A simple yes, I’m going to school would have sufficed.”

“Sorry. I can’t deny the urge to be a smart-ass.”

I never miss school anyway, not even when I’m ill. There’s zero chance I’ll miss a minute during this critical week, when final exam postings are expected soon. Each grade I get could change the outcome of the race for valedictorian. As much as I’d love to think I’ve got the title secured, there’s one competitor who’s always been huffing down my neck.

Tamera pushes open the Pod cover. My Pod is installed in the corner of my room so that its wires can be plugged into the port in the wall, which makes the setup look rather sarcophagus-like. We have ports in every room, feeding into the cables that grant upcountry access, provided that Dad continues paying the subscription fees associated with our log-ins.

“I checked your nutrient line already, and your level is fine for two back-to-back months,” Tamera tells me. “If you need the entire ten weeks for your posting, though, I’m sure it’ll alert me to replace it too.”

It’s supposed to be my responsibility to make sure the Pod has suitable levels before I log in, but Tamera likes to take care of everything in the household. It’s nice. At the academy, they have emergency nurses on standby in case someone’s Pod falls low on nutrient levels, but cadets can also easily log themselves out, walk over to the nutrient room, and shove a replacement into the Pod. The only time it becomes trickier is during our final exam posting, because if we’re being hacked into another country, we can’t leave until the posting is finished. In this specific case, NileCorp allows us to skip one mandatory reset day, knowing that it’s worth the risk if we want to stay in a foreign server. If our Pods are well maintained, two months in virtual won’t do us any harm.

Tamera tuts, peering into the Pod now. I left the Claw lying on the pillow, not on the hook on the side where it’s supposed to go. I smile sheepishly while I climb in, but I haven’t damaged any of the electrode rods.

The Pod has all sorts of other bits and bobs that make it suitable for long-term stay. Nodes stick out from the sides, attaching to my legs, to my arms, to my torso. NileCorp has had decades to perfect its stasis technology, zapping the body at the right intervals while our minds are upcountry to make sure nothing atrophies in the real world. I slide the nutrient needle into my arm.

“Comfortable?” Tamera asks.

I adjust one of the Claw prongs, slotting it onto my head. The back needs to be aligned with the chip in my head. “Ow. Why is this so tight—”

She reaches in, unraveling a bit of my hair that got stuck on the Claw.

“I’m good. You can shut the Pod.” I pause. “Thank you.”

Tamera nods, then reaches in to touch my face briefly. “Have a good time at school. And good luck if I don’t see you before your posting.”

She closes the cover. The Pod goes pitch-black. In darkness I sigh with relief, waiting for the screen above me to buffer before the launch message appears. It recognizes my face after a few seconds, the text at the top displaying, WELCOME BACK, LIA. No need to enter my log-in credentials again—it’ll only prompt me for my password the next time I’ve renewed my user ID. A map of Atahua and its territories shimmers to life, offering at my disposal every upcountry landing station where I could go. True to its purpose, the map of upcountry is identical to a map of downcountry, each street and building facade replicated by NileCorp’s satellites. I zoom in on Button State, then flick the map slightly above Button City, sixty miles north in a town surrounded by bright red trees with a river to the east and a castle floating on the edge of the water. I’ve performed this process hundreds of times. At this point, it’s as familiar to me as breathing.

I tap my destination. Press confirm. The mist inside the Pod begins to blow: a cooling, numbing sensation sinking to the bone. The Claw gives me a small electric zap to tell me it’s about to kick in.

A Strange Loop . . .

My shoulders relax. My breathing eases. The map dissolves for the engine’s greeting words, the same three-lined phrase since StrangeLoom first hit the market.

on a StrangeLoom . . .

Letter by letter, each of the words appears, then fades. By the time the final part comes, I’m under in an instant.

The Future has Loaded.

#

The academy has a landing station outside campus for arrivals into upcountry, but it’s deserted when my avatar pops in. Early-morning landing stations for public schools in the city would be abuzz with activity while daily users make their entry, but all cadets at Nile Military Academy must board as monthly users. Yesterday everyone logged off half an hour earlier than me while I was finishing up some homework, which means they came in earlier too. I’m alone when I walk the short path up to the gate.

NILE MILITARY ACADEMY, the sign out front declares. EVER READY.

I grab the sign as I pass, squeezing cold metal. The cut on my palm obviously didn’t copy over to virtual, but I feel the sting on my avatar, nonetheless. When I let go of the sign and continue walking, I receive a small pop-up in the corner of my vision.

Please refrain from any action that may damage academy property.

“Sorry!” I call out, swiping the pop-up away. No one’s actually listening. The alerts are automated, warnings triggered by the rules NileCorp sets inside its property. If I accidentally damage the sign, it’ll stay like that. StrangeLoom promises to scan the real world to create upcountry, but it’s not continuously updating afterward. They’d have to bring in engineers to restore its image, or just get a new sign in virtual. Both of which take effort and money.

I blink once, opening my display to see the time. I really should hurry. It’s a big campus, and there are certain areas that I have to navigate carefully, perpetually slippery because of the wet mud. I open my messages and find Rayna. She probably wouldn’t have gone back to sleep after logging in with only forty-five minutes until first period, but in typical Rayna fashion, she’ll still roll into her class right before the bell on purpose. I send HELLOOOOO RISE AND SHINE!!! to her inbox.

The wind blows at my eyes as I trudge onto the gravel path toward the school. Our shared calendar tells me Rayna’s first period is math while I go to PE.

“Cadet Lia,” the gate guard, Mr. Nell, bellows when he spots me. “You’re going to miss your entire first class at this leisurely rate!”

I pick up my pace. “Sorry, sorry,” I grumble. “Do I have time to change—”

“No, cadet! Report to the gymnasium, cadet!”

Most cadets on campus call him Mr. Yell behind his back. “Yessir. Have a great morning, sir.”

My avatar reloaded with yesterday’s combat uniform: the clothes I was wearing before logging out. I’m glad I’d changed first and hadn’t just pulled myself downcountry in my pajamas. There’s nothing I can do about my loose hair, but at least it’s shorter in virtual. More manageable than the length it’s grown to downcountry.

In Atahua, we get very little adjustment on how we look upcountry. Our first scan happens at the NileCorp registration center, when we turn five years old and qualify for StrangeLoom credentials. They’ll put us under the cameras, issue a user ID, then make the quick incision to implant the chip that interacts with the Claw. We renew our StrangeLoom credentials every year—those without Pods go back into the NileCorp centers, and those with Pods only have to press a button. The scans are completed in seconds, and our avatars are updated to appear exactly as we do downcountry when we log in again.

We’re not without options, technically. We could buy hair extensions or get haircuts up here. There’s even a thriving plastic surgery industry that has learned how to make avatar adjustments using legal code alterations.

The plastic surgery industry, meanwhile, is entirely dead in upcountry Medaluo. Over there, users have a cosmetic adjustment page in their very display, letting them change the shape of their avatars’ chins and the brightness of their teeth within reason. The feed debates all the time whether avatar customization should be allowed, arguing about how harmful it is to our perception of beauty when people can change how they look at a whim.

I don’t mind that Atahua mandates cosmetic adjustments to be blanked out. One less thing to worry about so I can focus on studying instead.

My classmates appear in the distance, streaming out from the gymnasium in two rows. I’m late. They’ve started their first jog around the campus perimeter. Another pop-up shimmers into the corner of my display.

You are three minutes late to first period!

I break into a jog to catch up. The last thing I need is my participation grades slipping, especially when physical education is a bogus class upcountry. It’s more about building habits and relaxing the mind. We must learn to push through discomfort. Spar with one another on the mats to quicken our mental reflexes and then do it again in the real during reset days.

I’ve argued with Dad about what I might be missing out on if I don’t practice what I learn. I haven’t stepped foot on the physical campus—it’s too far to travel to when my Pod is in Haven State. I can work out endlessly at home, but for all I know, I could end up as one of those cadets who graduate and suddenly can’t figure out how to throw a real punch when I’m a contractor posted downcountry.

It’s happened before. The Pods are built to preserve our real bodies for optimal function, but that doesn’t mean everyone puts the nodes on correctly; nor does it mean that we can build actual muscle while upcountry. I’ve obsessed over former cadet testimonials who sue NileCorp for firing them when they’re weaker than expected and lain awake at night wondering if that could happen to me even if I do make it into their private military. Those cases never win. If people aren’t as competent downcountry as they are upcountry when they were offered a job, that’s their own fault.

My hair streams behind me as I gain speed, the strands lifting with the wind. On my reset days, I can count to a hundred doing push-ups. The treadmill at home was intentionally placed in Tamera’s room so we can hang out if I’m running for hours and she’s knitting something. I’ve performed perfectly fine every month, with no indication that I won’t be able to transfer my skills.

A thrill sparks down my spine as I close in on the back of the cluster. I veer slightly right, joining the group of cadets.

“Better pick it up, Nat.”

Natalie Ward visibly jolts from the scare. A beat later, her expression smooths out when she sees it’s me. “Oh, just overtake me and let me suffer in peace. See you at lunch, bitch.”

I laugh, pushing forward. The eastern side of campus overlooks the river, where the sweet birch trees hang off the ledge and deposit handfuls of yellow-green leaves into the water. I weave and glide, steadily enough to avoid tiring myself out but keeping at a pace that cuts me ahead of a few classmates, then another. People have different stamina paces, even upcountry. However fit we are in virtual usually depends on the limits our own minds set for us. Other cadets have often accused me of having a big head, so maybe I’m competent upcountry by sheer faith and willpower.

The campus grounds curve up on a gentle hill, then back down in a muddy slide. I keep my footing delicate, arms held up for balance. I know the sharp rocks here by heart. None of our instructors are supervising us short of the status updates that the system must be running to the academy. Still, no one is going to straggle or go off-course to dally. We’re not the only military academy outside Button City, nor are we the oldest or biggest, but we’re the most prestigious. It takes the top scores on the entrance exam to qualify for entry. There’s a certain standard that Nile Military Academy sets, one that every cadet is increasingly aware of each time the common room’s screens are streaming the latest breaking news. NileCorp owns us, and where NileCorp goes, renown rains down. The very nature of life as we know it is owed to NileCorp.

I skid at the base of the hill. It doesn’t put any misstep in my stride—I recover in an instant and continue, approaching the end of the perimeter. When I’m the only one who runs up to Coach Chelsea, the warm swoop of achievement cradles my stomach. I’ve pulled to the front significantly.

“I thought you were a cadet from Tier B,” she calls to me. Her hands are propped on her hips. “I didn’t expect to see any Tier As for another ten minutes.”

“If you want me to go double and join Tier B’s run too, just say so,” I reply, coming to a stop. I heave a deep breath in. My lungs strain, then steady. NileCorp’s long regulatory manuals will spell out which exact actions upcountry will create which reactions in our avatars, but it’s easiest to assume the StrangeLoom engineers did the hard work and the usual logic we’re used to downcountry follows. They’re meticulous. They’ve gone as far as to ensure our breath will stink after a night of virtual sleeping, which means monthly users also need to brush our teeth every morning.

“Half of Tier B is back already,” Coach says, “but you could probably catch up to the other half if you go now.”

“Okay.” I pretend to lurch back toward the hill, taking the route of the other class. We didn’t overlap in the middle because Tier B runs through the proper path of the forest rather than the edge overlooking the river, where Tier A goes.

Coach Chelsea rolls her eyes good-naturedly and checks her watch. She’s one of many people who will still buy antiquated items upcountry. She could just as easily blink to open her display and look at the time, but I suppose it must be nice to lift her arm and perform the action she got used to in the years before virtual.

She waves for me to proceed into the gymnasium, where Tier A and B will merge to resume class. I go through the outer doors, wiping down my shoes at the entryway. I have another pair in my locker, but I don’t know if this is enough mud to warrant a change.

The gymnasium’s inner doors slam open. The sound is loud enough to jolt me, but I relax as soon as I see who it is. Kieren Murray, dressed in class uniform rather than combat gear for physical education. He’s definitely not in this period—I’m pretty sure he has Atahuan Literature now. Not that I’ve memorized his schedule or anything.

“Ward,” he says, and despite his smile, it instantly sounds like a taunt. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” I return his smile, sickly sweet, while I go to open my locker. I make the decision to change my shoes then purely to skirt around Kieren and busy myself. He hates it when people don’t give him their full attention. “We’re twenty minutes into first period.”

“I thought maybe you would have smelled final exam postings dropping and levitated your way to the nearest board.”

My smile drops. “What?”

It can’t have happened any sooner than seconds ago if I haven’t heard about it yet. Typical of Kieren to make it sound like I haven’t been paying attention. He and his twin sister, Hailey, don’t keep their Pods on campus either, so for all I know he also logged back in right before first period.

He looms closer. “Did you do it?”

“Do what?” I demand. I’ve never dropped a bit so fast. We can go back and forth in classic fashion another day—are final exam postings out?

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“I literally don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, Kieren Murray, my dear nemesis. I’ve been the largest pain in his ass since the summer before ninth grade, after we were accepted into Nile Military Academy based on northeastern state entrance exams. We befriended each other at a New Cadet Orientation party, then swore enmity just as quickly the next day when we were seated side by side for a second ranking exam to establish class tiers. Somehow, he and I ended up sharing number one because we had both not only received perfect scores but maxed out the bonus points the exact same way. Though they did their due diligence and investigated us for potential cheating, the system didn’t note either of our heads looking up even once. No chance of cheating. In retrospect, it’s shocking that they let me share that rank with him instead of shoving me to number two given that Kieren’s own father is the academy headmaster.

Four years have passed, and nothing has changed. I rile him up so badly before tests that there are always rumors going around school about how we must be secretly hooking up because no two people can truly care that much about scoring higher than the other. Rayna is frequently talking me down from sending a blast to the feed debunking the claims. Not that it matters, but Kieren and I have only kissed once. And we were thirteen years old, so it doesn’t count. I don’t know whether I’m more offended by the insinuation that I would partake in hookup culture or that I need another reason to give Kieren Murray an aneurysm beyond being better than him.

“The posting, Ward.” Kieren throws his arms up in the air. “This is unheard of.”

Dad might think that overworking is what fuels my anxiety and derealization, but being the best is what makes me feel most alive. Kieren, consequently, may be my primary competitor, but he’s also my greatest source of joy.

I keep that to myself, of course.

Carefully, I poke one finger at his chest, trying to push him back. “Can you ease up a little? If anyone steps out right now, those rumors are going to be at full fire.”

“You—” His hands grab at the space between us as though he wants to strangle me but can’t quite bring himself to do it. “Fine. I’m going to go sort this out since I apparently have to do everything around here.”

With an abrupt motion, Kieren pivots and storms away.

“Is it something I said?” I call after him. “Baby, come back. I can change!”

He gives me the finger without looking. If I can’t get further retort out of Kieren, this is probably serious. I’m already grimacing before he disappears through the doors properly. Final postings. It’s early. I didn’t expect them this morning of all mornings, the moment we’ve returned from a reset day. We still have one more unit to cover in class.

I change my shoes quickly, then slam my locker closed. Inside the gymnasium, Tier B’s cadets who have returned already are clumped around the far wall. Drills will be starting as soon as the rest of their class and mine arrive, so it’s unusual for everyone to be congregated by the announcement board. They’re installed all across campus, each one accompanied by a holographic animation of the NileCorp logo overhead, looping in the StrangeLoom icon’s infinity shape. Sometimes the boards are displaying upcoming events, and other times they’re crowded with headlines of breaking news that the academy wants cadets to be aware of. Today, the board looks sparse.

“Is it postings?” I ask, rising onto my toes at the edge of the crowd.

Gena Wilson turns around. Her eyes widen. “Lia, you’re here!” She shuffles aside immediately to let me through. “Go look.”

I push into the crowd, trying to shift closer without prodding other cadets. I hardly need to worry. When my classmates spot me, they hurry out of my way, making a path for me to proceed forward.

This is getting really weird.

I get to the front. I scan the words at the top of the board at once. Final exam postings, indeed. My heart slams to my throat.

Postings and announcements are always made by class ranking, so I expect to see myself in the first row. But my name is nowhere to be found. It’s not in the second row either. Nor the third. Now my pulse is starting to hammer. I move down the list slowly, carefully reading the two columns: the posting on the left and the cadet to the right. I see Rayna, posted to Medaluo. I see Hailey Murray, Kieren’s sister, also posted to Medaluo. That’s more unusual. Each individual cadet is designated to a location upcountry, followed by a short description of what their mission goal is. Most stay within Atahua. A fraction are sent to other nations. Cadets of Medan or Pyaish descent will almost always be sent to Medaluo. It’s a given that that’s where I’ll be posted.

At last I find my name at the very bottom of the board—which is a warning before I even register the rest of the words. It’s on a row on its own, separated from other postings.

I stare, aghast. I rub my eyes, then stare some more.

But no matter what I do, none of the words change.

See Headmaster for details

“Shit,” I mutter.

Excerpted from COLDWIRE by Chloe Gong. Copyright 2025 © by Chloe Gong. Reprinted by permission of Margaret K. McElderry Books, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.

Coldwire, by Chloe Gong will be released on November 4, 2025 from Margaret K. McElderry Books. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:

AMAZON AUDIBLE BARNES & NOBLE BOOKS-A-MILLION BOOKSHOP APPLE BOOKS KOBO LIBRO.FM TARGET WALMART POWELL'S BOOKS HUDSON BOOKSELLERS GOOGLE PLAY EBOOKS.COM